


i'll be coming for your love

by porcelain



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, M/M, Multi, a lil bittersweet, prom and stuffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcelain/pseuds/porcelain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>people don’t fall in love – not at sixteen when you can barely talk without your voice breaking, without the insecurity betraying your eyes, hidden beneath a pair of old sunglasses.</p><p>but dave does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll be coming for your love

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this thing a few years ago. i wanted it to be two parts but since i don't really write for homestuck anymore i'll just leave this thingaroo here. enjoy :)

the first time dave sees him, the kid looks lost.

he’s dressed in a navy v-neck sweater. with black hair uncombed and skin as white as the clouds, he wanders down the school hallway, gazing around the offices with these ridiculously wide eyes that flicker with something. like curiosity, or hope.

dave’s first thought is that this guy is an idiot – and he must be new, because _what kind of moron wears sweaters in texas in the middle of april_?  but dave doesn’t take his eyes off of him; instead he moves forward, locker to locker as the other boy shuffles along. the boy cranes his neck at one point, squinting eyes, and he stills among the rush of people around them as they stare at each other.

he doesn’t know why he doesn’t look away, but the other boy doesn’t either.  the seconds stretch out so long that it feels like it’s been hours, and he’s prepared to turn his head and get going to his biochemistry class when the kid steps closer to him.

“excuse me,” the boy says, like a question.

this is the first time dave notices how ridiculous looking this guy’s teeth are, especially the front two, and he bites back his tongue from snickering. “uh—do you know where the attendance office is? it’s my first day here, heh.” he runs long fingers through his hair, giving a smile. “i’m totally lost!”

his older bro would be the kind of person to spew out irrelevant isms and probably would pat the kid on the back, call him his amigo, and would be his personal tour guide for the remainder of the school week. he’d probably even buy him a ‘welcome to texas’ taco for lunch that day. his bro would know exactly the right things to say to charm this new guy and have him falling at his feet admiringly.

dave just stares at the way this kid’s eyes turn into crescent moons when he’s laughing nervously, and he clears his throat, preparing to speak, and be really, really fucking cool.

instead, he points his finger in the general direction down the hallway, towards a sign that says attendance. he doesn’t even have a sarcastic comment about how it’s so obvious that even terezi, the resident blind girl, could’ve seen it too.

“oh.” the new boy tugs his backpack over his shoulder. “i guess i’m just nervous, haha. but thanks, dude.” he offers dave one last smile before he turns and prepares to leave, and that’s that, dave thinks almost sadly. but then the boy turns back slightly and he says, “oh! i’m john by the way. cool glasses!” with a wave, he’s off, long legs gracefully gliding away, and dave is left standing there, words caught in his throat.

 _i’m dave_.

sitting in his fourth period class, ignoring the way his lab table fills up with bubbles and hydrochloric acid, dave fingers the glasses his bro got him years and years ago, and echoes to himself: _john_.

 

 

people don’t fall in love – not at sixteen when you can barely talk without your voice breaking, without the insecurity betraying your eyes, hidden beneath a pair of old sunglasses.

but dave does.

 

 

dave thinks that maybe he should be a little peeved.

it’s not like he’s been living here his whole life and hasn’t managed to accomplish even a fraction of the social achievements that this john kid has in just a few weeks or anything.

egbert. john egbert is his full name, and everyone knows it. no one’s able to miss those long, long, long legs running through the hallway late to his american history class, converse stomping a rhythm that echoes through the corridors, making you turn your head in your psychology class to peer through the window to catch just a glimpse of his blurred black head.

_(just to have your teacher call on you in an irritated tone, leaving you flustered, red-faced, and blubbering in your own seat)_

 

 

john walks like he’s on air.

he smiles mercilessly, all open mouthed and toothy, and laughs in abundance— what’s stupid is everyone is so taken by this kid that came out of nowhere.  he’s magnetic and fucking charming and _likeable_ , and dave thinks that yes, maybe he would be a little peeved with this kid, if he wasn’t so completely, utterly infatuated with him.

the downside to his obese crush is that dave doesn’t have the luck of sharing any classes with john.

it seems that dave is blessed to be placed in the majority of the honors classes, drowning away with pretentious, worrying ivy league bound kids. not like this makes much of a difference anyways: every time the chance comes to even attempt to talk to john, it dies in an atomic explosion called _holy shit how do i words._

it should be made easier, if even just a little, because john is friendly, and he says hi to everyone he knows, even if they’ve met only once.

but that doesn’t explain why when john spots him in the hallway and his whole demeanor perks up by 200% and he waves at him, all dave can do is simply nod back.

he hates himself for the rest of the day.

 

 

 _stop being a wimp,_ he grits his teeth after. _god damn it, strider, you show him what he’s been missing all this time. bust out your skills of love and persuasion._

dave’s mumbling furiously when he enters the library, and there’s barely anyone in it, because let’s be honest here, who actually needs to use the computers or check out books anymore?

but dave doesn’t have a ride home most days and he doesn’t feel like biking home today just yet, so he decides that maybe just chilling out in the library for a while wouldn’t hurt. in fact it’ll be a bit relaxing, he thinks, as he can finish up some AP euro history work and holy shit is that john egbert right there sitting all by himself.

he catches his breath and steps to the side, hiding behind a bookcase, peering through the cracks to make sure that’s really john and not some other kid with the same adorable squinty eyes.

yeah, it’s him.

and fuck his heart is beating way too fast, maybe he should just sit down somewhere before he needs to get his inhaler—shit, shit, _shit_ his inhaler is in his locker and he’s not about to leave now, because john is looking up curiously around the room, and it would really look weird to just exit.

it’s about subtlety damn it.

dave’s having a nonsensical conversation with himself, huffing and breathing hard and he doesn’t notice when john comes up behind him and taps him on the shoulder.

he nearly knocks over the bookcase in sheer terror.

“woah—! dude, are you okay?”

concerned hands are at his shoulders and pulling him away from the secluded area of non-fiction and within moments dave’s seated in a chair, his eyes blurry because this is probably one of the most mortifying things that has ever happened to him. even worse than the time he was (as a sick joke) nominated for homecoming king in his freshman year.

he takes a few steady breaths, nearly choking when john rubs his back comfortingly. or not so comfortingly, really, because dave is spluttering out, red-faced, “’m-- y-yeah i‘m fine. asthma attack.” more like panic attack, but in this case really he isn’t able to tell the difference.

“oh! oh, jeez. that really sucks man, i’m sorry.”  john stops with his hands and seats himself in front of dave, face to face as he leans forward concerned, eyebrows furrowed. “is there anything i can do to help?”

he learns something new about the black haired boy in that instance: the kid makes a lot of eye contact. way more than is actually necessary.

dave’s never been one much for religion, but in his mind he’s thanking god over and over again for sunglasses. his eyes are frantic as he feels bile rise up in his throat, and he’s desperately holding onto any threads to his calm and collected manner.

“i’m good, really,” he croaks out.

“dave,” _he remembers my name_ , the blond thinks while his heart flips. “you _really_ don’t look so well, dude…”

“i’m,” dave pauses, inhaling sharply and continuing, “...fine. seriously man, no sweat.”

dave straightens up and tries to flash john a reassuring sort of smile, which probably turns out more like a pained grimace if john’s face is anything to go off of. with one thin eyebrow raised,  john says in a skeptical tone, “well alright. just, you look like you’re going to barf or something dude!”

a bright smile is flashed. “but i guess—“ a hand comes down on dave’s knee, and squeezes it comfortingly. “i’ll take your word for it!”

and dave doesn’t know what’s happened – one moment his breathing has come down to a calm and the next he’s doubled over and just narrowly avoiding john’s left shoe as he lets out his anxiety-induced vomit.

as his throat burns and his eyes prick with tears, he figures that it’s probably john’s hand on his knee that triggered it, and it’s so dumb, because it’s so casual and so fickle, but that one touch left him weak in the knees, literally.

he hasn’t thrown up like this since his bro bought those watermelons from the sketchy mexican dude down the street.

 _shit i’m sorry_ he tries to say, as john scrambles out of his seat away from him (those converse are so shiny – _they must be new,_ dave observes) and for a split second he thinks john probably just got the hell out of there. but after a few minutes of vomiting up his lunch – consisted of two cheesesticks and a pb &j without the j – dave comes to a halt and he’s handed a paper towel. several of them, in fact.

john’s not a samaritan by any means – he doesn’t try to clean up the vomit on the floor, but he does gather up all their stuff in one arm and presses his iphone to his ear and says something like “hey dad…?”

dave presses the paper towel against his mouth and his stomach lurches at the thought – the realization – of what just happened, and he wants to throw himself off his apartment building.

 _way to fuckin’ go, man. you’re just smooth as butter aren’t you?_ that’s how you make your move. you throw up on ‘em. holy shit how can egbert resist you now?

his stream of self chastising thoughts are interrupted when john grabs him by the shoulder and hauls him up, glancing backwards towards the temporarily empty front desk. “dude we should leave before mrs. saunders comes back or she’s gonna have our asses!”

a look at the ground makes the bile rise up in dave’s throat once more, but he gives a nod and they’re scurrying out of the doors quicker than they should – passing the elderly, scowling librarian with their heads held down. way to look goddamn guilty.

they’ve only gotten past the front office when saunders is screeching, her shrill voice being heard through the empty halls and john goes “oh _shit_!” and starts sprinting, tugging dave along regardless of the fact that he can barely walk in the first place but somehow it’s okay, because when they push out of the entrance doors and the sun beats down them hard, john starts to laugh.

it’s a slow start, but he’s bending over slightly on the front steps, hands on his knees and he gives dave a look with raised eyebrows and dave ignores the gnawing in his belly and laughs too.  little huffs turn into something bigger and louder and they’re wheezing, and it actually aches in his belly he’s laughing so much.

when john starts snorting, dave nearly pisses himself right there and then.

 

 

“thanks for the ride home, mr. egbert,” dave says to the suave-looking man sitting in the front seat. he manages to not feel utterly guilty for the very, very faint lingering smell of vomit in the car, even though the dry, scratchiness in his throat reminds him that he should be.

“anytime, dave. any friend of john is more than welcome to a seat in the buick.” john’s father gives him a small smile, no teeth but all almond eyes curving, exactly just like john’s. crescenty.

dave would swoon, but that would be kind of creepy.

his backpack hits him in the chest and brings out a strange sounding huff and john goes “sorry!” in a completely unapologetic voice, not bothering at all to muffle his laughter. dave tries not to smile but his lips quirk up just as john shuts the door and the cherry red convertible starts up again, engine spluttering out more smoke than should actually be allowed.

“wait,” dave calls out, going into a small coughing fit.

a window rolls down and john’s smiling face pokes out. “yeah dude?”

“thanks.” he fidgets with his shirt sleeve, vaguely wondering what kind of mints john likes. “for, you know.”

“you know,” echoes john, eyes playfully crinkling.

dave wants to punch himself a little for not being verbally articulate, but you know what, goddammit, he’s trying. the universe should have a little mercy on him. “a lot of people are like, just ass, okay. vomit tends to repel people, s’all i’m saying. ”

all dave gets in return is a wide grin from john, impossibly white teeth like stars in his jaw and an oddly ambiguous “who says i’m not an ass?”

he can’t even get a word out of his mouth before john lets out a laugh and a “see you dave!”, and he’s off with a stupidly cool car and stupidly cooler father, driving away. he stares until they’re out of sight, until the only thing remaining left is the smoke.

there isn’t much sorrow in that, though, because when dave gets back to the apartment and chugs down a half a liter of apple juice, he finds that the burning in his throat isn’t entirely gone.

he thinks of john’s snort,  and he starts to laugh.

 

 

dave goes to prom not because a pretty girl asks him to, but because his bro does.

that’s not to say there’s actually a question asked, or that there isn’t a fight involved, because by god, there is. _prom is for fucking losers_ dave yells through the pillow muffled over his face, and his bro doesn’t say anything, just presses the pillow more into him until he sees black and white static, and passes out.

when he wakes up, there’s a completely atrocious velvet suit laid out on his bed, fresh as daisy new with a red blazer and white lapels, and all dave can do is be grateful that the pants are black. he gives a groan. then he looks up, and of course his bro is there, leaning against the door frame with arms crossed.

“i’m chaperoning.”

dave doesn’t have his glasses on at this point and so he can’t disguise the obvious furrow in his brows, the clear _why_ and _what the fuck_ on his face.

“lalonde’s going to be there.”

there’s a beat, then one two three seconds before he gets that it isn’t rose lalonde his bro is talking about, but her mom.

dave thinks of mrs. lalonde, bumping into him at the grocery store, giving a hiccup and asking “how is your brother?” but not waiting for an answer, just trudging away with two armfuls of vodka bottles.  dave thinks of nights when he comes home late from the arcade and sees two plates on the kitchen table, untouched, but wine bottle next to them empty. dave thinks of the apartment in its messy glory, filthy and colorful and smelly, and he thinks of his bro, all silence and muscle and _alone_.

realization dawns on his face before it evens out into a stoic nothingness.

his bro just gives an amused huff and leaves the room.

 

 

“this is _so_ lame.”

dave rolls his eyes at sollux even though the whiny korean boy can’t see it anyways. he keeps his focus on the flashing neon lights and the thumping rhythm of the horrendous dubstep being played, trying really hard to not agree with his friend’s lispy complaints. it’s difficult, but then again, sollux hates pretty much anything that isn’t his computer.

“this is _so_ —“

“lame, yeah, i fuckin’ get it sollux,” dave snaps, not feeling sorry for sounding like a dick.

“dude, i’m here because helping with refreshments gives me community service hours.” sollux pauses to give someone a refill of their drink with a scowl. “what about you, asshole?”  

dave turns his head and catches a glimpse of his bro, towering over a giggling woman in a violet shift dress with a paper cup in hand (dave thinks with a quirk of his lips that it isn’t 7 up, that’s for sure) and he just lets out an exhale. “shut the fuck up and get me some pepsi, sollux.”

“i’m not your fucking servant, get it yourself you dickhol—“

he comes to full stop when aradia megido stands before him, babely, all tan curves in gold satin. most people would be staring at her chest, taking in the sweetheart neckline and drooling over themselves but sollux ducks his head down quickly scrambling to get a paper cup for her.

aradia just smiles and says, “hey sollux.”

he is practically melting under this girl’s gaze and dave almost slinks away in the pure uncomfortableness of the moment.

“what, uh, what drink do you—“

“will you dance with me, sollux?”

dave’s not sure whose jaw drops more: his, or his nerdy friend. not minding the fact that the help are not allowed to leave the refreshments section, sollux wordlessly nods and throws the paper cup at dave, scurrying out excitedly from behind the counter.

the only thing dave gets from sollux is a mouthed “holy _shit_ ” before aradia loops her arms through his and whispers something into his ears that makes his cheeks flush pink.

dave crushes the paper cup in his hand and tries not to feel the envy churning in him.

 

 

“it appears that my mother and your brother are getting along quite well,” a soft voice muses.

turning his head towards his right side, he sees rose, bending over to get her own drink. just water, as always. (“ _i abhor soda,”_ dave remembers her announcing during a third grade pizza party, to his and everyone else’s bewilderment.)

rose is tiny – which is saying a lot considering tallness is not something dave can proudly boast – a mere 5’’ foot to his 5’’5, and she looks even tinier in her suit. in her skinny tie and even skinnier pants, she stands just a bit taller in her mary jane heels but not enough to make a substantial difference. it makes him want to ruffle her hair, but he knows she would just clock him in the face if he did that to her perfectly slicked back hair.

he gives an acknowledging nod. “nice suit.”

“i’d like to return the compliment but unfortunately lying is a sin. your brother looks nice, though,” rose says, hint of a teasing humor in her tone. everything about rose is subtle, including the way she slides next to him, breathing out, “thank you for coming.”

dave doesn’t have to wonder why she’s thanking him – it seems odd, yes, but they’re both looking towards a corner where their guardians are murmuring to themselves, and he understands. his bro wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t.

“well it’s not like i had a choice, lalonde.” he pops a strawberry into his mouth and continues, “bro would’ve dragged me here even if i cut off my legs. guy doesn’t know how to take no for a fucking answer.”

rose rolls her eyes and she puts her drink down, grabs his arm with her dainty, manicured fingers and says, “oh, stop acting like a sourpuss, dave. now, if you’re willing to try and have a bit of fun, i’d be more than happy to assist you.”

“oh did you bring your ouija board to prom, rose? yeah, totally, let’s go talk to the dead and poke voodoo dolls—“

rose punches him in the shoulder and he splutters out an “ow what the fuck lalonde”, getting a perfectly raised eyebrow in return.

“dave strider, i do not appreciate you poking fun at my hobbies.”

dave doesn’t get a chance to remark that it’s less of a hobby than it is a lifestyle for rose when she tugs him away from the counter and over to the dance floor, all the while ignoring his pleas of _please, please, can we not, i’m serious let’s just go play with your voodoo dolls, ow, i’m sorry, ow._

he doesn’t try to complain because the music is so loud he can’t even hear himself think.

rose brings them over to the middle of the dance floor where he sees a dozen of other familiar faces – classmates, acquaintances. friends, if he was to go that far.

“don’t think,” rose shouts right into his ear. “just dance.”

she shakes him encouragingly and starts to move, flyaway strands of hair making a mess of her perfect do. rose is a surprisingly good dancer, for all that she is. dave meekly stands there with his arms crossed, watching her, unsure of what to do. of things that dave strider is not good at and does not enjoy, dancing is probably number one.

“dance, you doofus!”

arms wrap around his neck and almost pull him stumbling down until they let go, and dave glares through his glasses, seemingly seeing nothing until jade harley’s cheeky face comes into view.

dave lets out a sigh. jade, with all her good intentions, has always been a handful. though dave supposes that’s a part of her charm, one can’t help but be slightly afraid whenever she cmoes within a mile radius of them. she reeks of sweetness, of mischievousness. and earthworms, occasionally.

“if you don’t dance, i’ll stick gum onto your glasses!”  jade blows out a big bubble for emphasis. he pokes it, watching it deflating sadly on her face and jade lets out a squeal, slapping him lightly in the chest.  “dave!”

he snickers, but she goes to pull out her gum and dave raises his hands up, “okay, okay, i’ll dance! fuckin’ psychos.”

he gets a triumphant smile from the green eyed girl and he snaps his fingers, shakes his shoulders, wiggle his butt, doing all kind of shit to appease her and rose, and that tiny nepeta who’s joined in on terrifying him, and soon he’s all out dancing, probably looking like an asshole. the awful music is, well, it’s still awful, but in retrospect, dancing is actually kind of tolerable.

and he figures he probably looks a bit like a pimp with the bunch of pretty girls surrounding him, so, okay, it’s not so bad after all.

 

 

he’s shimmying it up, sandwiched between jade and rose when he hears a familiar laugh.

“dave, you pimp!”

wiping the sweat from his forehead, dave stops dancing. john makes his way over to him in the crowd, waving goodbye to a girl with dyed blue hair – vriska serket, dave vaguely thinks, eyeing the red blossom pinned onto the jacket of john’s suit. dave doesn’t acknowledge the dim ache in his chest.

instead, dave wonders how john knows her – but then he remembers john knows everybody. he gets a reminder of that when john says hello to practically everyone surrounding them, all cheerful and genuine.

 

 

“excuse me, ladies!” john says in his awful rendition of a british accent, wiggling his eyebrows. “i’m going to steal dave for a dance.” a bunch of girlish giggles signal their leave and they dissipate from around him, leaving dave to be alone with john.

flush in the face, dave says, “nah man, i’ll pass, uh, dancing’s just like, kind of lame.”

“looks like you were enjoying it a lot back there, actually,” john grins, all toothy. “come on, let’s just boogie. get down. shake our thang.”

“did you just say ‘thang’—dude, shit—“ it seems there’s a trend in tugging dave around and inappropriately hauling him like some sort of ragdoll because john does just that, merciless in his apparent need to shake his thang.

dave wants to say no, just walk away because there are people looking at them, of _course_ there are people looking, because that’s the effect john has. the guy is genuinely shaking his ass and doing all kinds of obscene, ridiculous moves and no one is complaining at all; in fact they’re cheering and hooting and john just shoots him a “come on!” look and it takes his everything to not join in.

he does.

john pulls at his arms, yelling, “i love this song!” and continues on to completely demolish the chorus by screaming out the words, and dave gives a small smile. he starts to sing, too.

dave doesn’t remember the last time he sang this much (oh, that’s right, _never_ ), and he doesn’t remember having this much fun dancing, either.

then again, he doesn’t remember meeting anyone that was quite like john egbert.  

when the song ends, john is grinning so wide dave is afraid his face might get stuck that way and he pulls him in for a hug, all sweat and coca cola mixed in with something so innately _john_ that dave’s heart aches when he pulls away.

the dj switches to a slow, r&b number, calling all couples out for the last dance of the night, and john says something he can’t quite hear. something like “that was fun” or “we should do that more” but dave’s not really aware, because vriska pulls john away with a lick of her lips. john winks at dave just before vriska wraps her long arms around him and buries her pierced nose into the crook of his neck.

                                   

 

dave retreats from the dance floor, and he feels the faint twitch of a smile on his face slowly fading away as he spots rose intertwined with kanaya maryam. he looks just a little further and sees mrs. lalonde holding onto bro, her lips gliding over his, and dave’s never seen more sincerity on his bro’s face than in that moment.

the realness of everything, of humans, causes a tightness in his chest. dave pulls out his inhaler, and leaves before the dance ends. he walks home alone, humming to himself the song he danced to.

it’s stuck in his head for weeks.

 

 

_(i’ll be coming for your love, ok? take on me, take me on—i’ll be gone in a day or two)_

 


End file.
